Любовна поезия

[DisappointedDreamer]

oh, wanderlust
I always wondered why the concept of wanderlust
wasn’t in the diagnostic manual of a doctor’s office.
People used to tell me it was just a phase,
something I would grow out of and eventually pass by
like a stranger on a crowded street.
They’d tell me it was a noun.
It’s not a noun.
It’s a feeling.
Can you imagine
being so torn apart inside, so nostalgic, so full of desire
for places you’ve never been to
that you would leave the house at three in the morning
just to feel something other than stale air
on your skin?
Wanderlust is a disease.
It has no cure.


writingsforwinter

[Vivid]

oh, wanderlust
I always wondered why the concept of wanderlust
wasn’t in the diagnostic manual of a doctor’s office.
People used to tell me it was just a phase,
something I would grow out of and eventually pass by
like a stranger on a crowded street.
They’d tell me it was a noun.
It’s not a noun.
It’s a feeling.
Can you imagine
being so torn apart inside, so nostalgic, so full of desire
for places you’ve never been to
that you would leave the house at three in the morning
just to feel something other than stale air
on your skin?
Wanderlust is a disease.
It has no cure.


writingsforwinter

Много е добро.

[DisappointedDreamer]

Много е добро.

Мхм, ето още едно:

I still find strands of your hair in my pillow.
Even the coffeemaker misses you,
gurgling sadly in the corner.
Once I fit my body to yours, arm to arm,
leg to leg, heart to heart.
You said: Even roses wilt.


[Vivid]

Мхм, ето още едно:

I still find strands of your hair in my pillow.
Even the coffeemaker misses you,
gurgling sadly in the corner.
Once I fit my body to yours, arm to arm,
leg to leg, heart to heart.
You said: Even roses wilt.


Благодаря, чудесно е. ^.^

~
Les enfants qui s'aiment s'embrassent debout
Contre les portes de la nuit
Et les passants qui passent les désignent du doigt
Mais les enfants qui s'aiment
Ne sont là pour personne
Et c'est seulement leur ombre
Qui tremble dans la nuit
Excitant la rage des passants
Leur rage, leur mépris, leurs rires et leur envie
Les enfants qui s'aiment ne sont là pour personne
Ils sont ailleurs bien plus loin que la nuit
Bien plus haut que le jour
Dans l'éblouissante clarté de leur premier amour